Jumping from the Ropes
by LadyTP
Summary: What could the big bad heel of the Westeros Wrestling Association, Sandor 'The Hound' Clegane, and the university student with dreams of becoming a psychiatrist, Sansa Stark, ever have in common? A chance meeting at the University Christmas party, a moment shared. …could she take the risk and jump from the ropes? A modern AU prompt-fill for Sansan Christmas in July 2019 Challenge.
1. The Climb

**Author's Notes:** Here comes my first-ever fully modern AU! Not necessarily by choice, but I received this prompt from Sincerelydayyy in Tumblr for the Sansan Christmas in July 2019 Secret Sansa challenge, "University AU, Christmas party", and I really couldn't see a way to wiggle out of the modern AU connotations without seriously violating the prompt… And it was an interesting challenge, so all good!

Anyway, since being set in modern times, I took the liberty of choosing the setting of my personal preference, a pro-wrestling world. Note however, that this doesn't mean that this story would be set in the modern-day USA – this is still in Westeros, in an unspecified culture that is probably a mix of various cultures I know…

Million thanks for a Cecilia1204 (in AO3)/Queenoferebor1204 (in Tumblr) for betaing this fic like a champ!

Below some wrestling terms for those who may find some words odd – although I tried to be rather general and not get too much into 'lingo'**.**

_ Heel _\- A wrestler who is villainous and who is booked to be booed by fans. Heels are the opposite of faces, and faces commonly perform against heels.

_ Face (also babyface) _\- A wrestler who is heroic and who is booked to be cheered by fans. Faces are the opposite of heels, and heels commonly perform against faces.

_ Enforcer _\- A (typically larger) wrestler who accompanies another wrestler as a second to matches and acts as a bodyguard.

_ Kayfabe _\- The presentation of professional wrestling as being entirely legitimate or real.

_ Pop _\- A cheer or positive reaction from the crowd.

_ Jumping from the ropes_ – refers to aerial techniques, also known as "high-flying moves", which are manoeuvres using the wrestling ring's posts and ropes as aids to execute moves such as diving elbow drop, diving crossbody, swan dive and more.

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter – this was initially going to be a one-shot only, but it seems this is growing a bit to a two-chapter fic. After all, any good move has at least two stages: the set-up and the execution…

Do let me know what you think and how you find my modern AU! As always, constructive criticism is also welcomed, if you think it warranted. Or come and say hi on Tumblr, where I am a ladytp.

* * *

_**Sansa**_

"So, what's Daddy's little girl doing alone with a grown-ass man in a secluded place like this?"

The man's words were as harsh as his tone, low and gravelly. Those, combined with his looks and menacing presence, would have been enough to intimidate anyone – and Sansa was no exception. Her heart started pounding and she almost turned on her heels to ran away, but knowing how ridiculous it would look, she grit her teeth and stood her ground.

The room was dimly lit. White light from the courtyard streamed through the half-closed shutters, but not bright enough nor far enough to reach him fully, leaving him shrouded in the shadows. Sansa's belly fluttered when she took in his form, really _looking_ at him.

He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed across his chest. And _what_ arms; thick and muscled, adorned with ornate tattoos. Not only arms, but everything about him was impressive, from the top of his head, down his thick body all the way to the bottom of his black work boots. His hair was dark and fell lankily to cover half his face, his body perfectly proportioned for such a tall man.

_The Hound._

The meanest, the angriest, the most notorious wrestler in the Westeros Wrestling Alliance, WWA.

_What have I gotten myself into? _

Sansa swallowed, her mouth and throat suddenly as dry as parchment. She had probably drunk a few too many Christmas-themed Cranberry Margaritas, having reached that degree of inebriation where everything was wonderful and she felt confident, funny and in control. Why else would she have followed him, only to find herself in a situation she knew _for sure_ she had absolutely no control over?

The Hound leaned back, his mouth twitching and his eyes travelling down her body. Sansa knew she looked pretty, having prepared for the evening with particular care. The annual King's Landing University's Christmas Party was one of the biggest events in its calendar, its attendees consisting of university staff and selected students, invited guests and sponsor representatives. An event that was worth all the fuss Sansa had gone through by doing her hair, makeup and dress, finishing with adorning herself with an assortment of novelty Christmas jewellery to heighten the spirit of the season.

"I… I thought you might get lost. The corridors can be quite a maze to navigate."

Sansa had seen him leave the Great Hall after having hovered at the back of the room during the speeches, emptying beer bottles, one after another, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to him. As one of the student body representatives _and_ feeling partially responsible for the main sponsor's guests – secured by her father's connections – she had followed him to make sure he didn't get lost in the labyrinth of the old building's many corridors.

The Hound snorted. "I needed to get away from that. Too much noise."

Sansa's courage started to return. He was just a man, after all. A man in her father's employ, even. Or to be precise, in the employ of Bobby 'Stag' Baratheon, owner of WWA, who's COO her father was. Bobby had lured his old friend, Ned Stark, from the North to help him manage the unruly organisation, and as Sansa had wanted to take the opportunity of her university's student exchange program, she had accompanied her father to the capital.

"I think I know what you mean. I'm not keen on big parties either," Sansa said, relaxing her stance. Her heart rate had returned to normal and the cloying effect of the alcohol was restoring her confidence. She could do this, she could talk with him as if it was nothing special.

The Hound hadn't moved but as Sansa's eyes had by then adjusted to the darkness, she could see him better; the way his lips curled when he gave her another once-over.

"_You,_ not keen on parties? I thought that's where pretty little birds like you flock - to see and be seen."

Something in the way he said it rubbed Sansa the wrong way. She knew some people saw her just as a pretty bimbo with no substance, but she knew better. She took her studies seriously and didn't party any more than her friends did – probably less. She wanted to become a doctor, a psychiatrist, to help people in need, so to be dismissed as a party girl irked her.

"How can you say something like that? You don't know me."

"Aye, I don't know you, but I have seen you fluttering around in your pretty pink and blue dresses, sipping champagne at the company events."

Sansa drew in a deep breath, preparing to tell him she did those things only as a favour for her father who sometimes asked her to accompany him at official functions, when she realised what the Hound had just said.

_'Pretty pink and blue dresses'._

True, she had one pink and another light blue cocktail dress, specifically bought for such occasions – but for him to have noticed them must mean that he had noticed _her._

Sansa swallowed the words on the tip of her tongue, suddenly unsure of her footing. She had assumed The Hound wouldn't know her from a loaf of bread; an insignificant girl in the crowd when there were so many girls clamouring to be seen by him and other wrestlers.

Sansa had certainly noticed him, too. Not only was he hard _not_ to notice, towering at least a head above most people in any crowd, but he was also the heavily promoted up-and-coming star of the company. The Hound was a heel, of course: one of the bad guys.

For a while, he had been an enforcer for the young gun Joffrey 'King' Baratheon – Bobby B's eldest son with dreams of wrestling domination - accompanying him to matches and playing dirty tricks with his opponents whenever the referee's head was turned. Eventually, a disagreement between the two – apparently a real-life matter, not kayfabe – had seen them go their separate ways. Since then, The Hound's career had been in ascendance and he was currently holding the WWA's Universal Champion title.

Sansa knew people she met were often surprised to find out that she followed pro-wrestling. It had been a natural part of life growing up, being surrounded by the wrestling world due to Ned Stark's position in it. However, even later, she had found herself drawn to it on her own although she often found it hard to explain to outsiders _why_. Probably partly because of its sheer physicality and athleticism and partly because of the elaborate storylines weaved into it, which hooked the viewers in and reeled them into coming back to see where the story went. 'Slow-burn soap opera', as her mother aptly called it. 'A transcendental art form, where what is presented is less important than how it makes the viewer _feel',_ as her intellectual younger brother Bran put it.

The Hound's ring persona was supposed to make the audience hate him – which it did, for the most part. The crowd _loved_ to hate him, and the pop he received was no less than what was given to faces such as the joke-cracking Bronn 'The Enforcer' or the all-around-nice guy Gendry 'The Smith'. The Hound revelled in that hate, spitting it back into people's faces – and yet, when Sansa had observed him on the sidelines or after the live segment had ended, she had been struck by the air of melancholy that seemed to surround him.

One Sunday morning when Sansa had been waiting for her father at the back of the stadium, she had seen The Hound jogging towards it with a huge black dog at his heels. It had been a Pitbull or some such, as lethal looking as its owner. He hadn't seen her as she had been sitting under a cover some distance away, but she had seen them.

Sansa had followed curiously, and, after catching his breath and stretching, The Hound had engaged in a playful game of chase with the dog, both taking turns to run and pursue each other. It had ended with him being pinned to the ground under the dog's huge paws, laughing and play-wrestling it to eventual submission. During the whole time, his face had been transformed from its usual surliness to something more open and relaxed – he had been a totally different man.

And then the backdoor had opened and Ned Stark had stepped out, and The Hound had instantaneously changed back to his brooding self.

Yes, Sansa had noticed him too.

While still wondering how to proceed – or not - Sansa suddenly also remembered an incident that had taken place a few months before, at one of those company functions. Ned had disappeared somewhere with Bobby, and Sansa had had an unpleasant experience of being harassed by two team officials, clearly worse for wear with a drink. They might not have meant anything with their clumsy attempts at flirtation, but Sansa hadn't welcomed their company and had grown increasingly uncomfortable when they hadn't picked up her signals to leave her alone.

And then, out of nowhere, The Hound had appeared and nailed the men with his piercing stare - and without him having to say a word, the men had departed. Yet before Sansa had had a chance to thank him, The Hound had disappeared again, moving surprisingly fast for such a big man.

"That doesn't mean that you know why I was there or what I think of those events. Men like you are too quick to judge a book by its cover," she finally said, still riled by his poor assessment of her character.

"Men _like_ me? Now, who's quick to judge? Do you claim to know _me?_ I have seen you peeping at me by the ringside, don't think I haven't." The Hound pushed himself away from the wall and walked towards Sansa. She instinctively took a step back, and noticing it, the Hound smirked.

"Is this what fascinates you? An ugly mug to stare at? Not like the pretty boys here at the campus." He pointed to his face, the other side of which was covered with scar tissue. It was not a pleasant sight, the hardened tissue distorting his cheek into a bundle of twisted purple knots. Sansa had heard that it had looked even worse before but that one of the conditions of his first contract had been for him to undergo plastic surgery to make his appearance more palatable to the audience.

Whether the surgery had been botched or whether the intention had never been to remove the scars altogether, the end result was that many of them were still clearly visible. Oddly enough, it was usually considered to give him an extra edge in his profession, where much of the story was focussed on the heel trying to be as threatening as possible.

"No, it's not that!" Sansa exclaimed. "I… I think you're a good wrestler, that's all."

"Hmph." The Hound stopped his advance and swayed slightly on his feet, taking a hold of the edge of an old wooden table between them. The room was dotted with them, being an old library, later relegated to a reading room for senior academic staff. Comfortable stuffed armchairs shared the space convivially with heavy ornamental tables, representing bygone times when universities epitomised dignity and grandeur.

He might have had a bit too much to drink as well, Sansa realised. He was holding a bottle of beer in his other hand although he hadn't drunk from it during their conversation – if their exchange of thinly veiled challenges could be called one. Once again, the inadvisability of the notion of being alone in a room with a drunken stranger raised its head in Sansa's mind, and yet, against all common sense, she didn't feel unsafe. Despite knowing that none of her friends were aware of where she had gone after sneaking out of the big hall, and that the man standing in front of her was a simmering cauldron of testosterone, probably ready to explode at any moment.

"Your face doesn't bother me," Sansa continued, emboldened by her realisation. To prove her point further, she looked straight at him, letting her gaze wander to the burned side. "What happened to you - how did you get them?"

The Hound straightened slowly to his full height, apparently having regained his balance.

"Fuck - I can't remember the last time someone asked me that question, to my face." He cocked his head and stared at Sansa. "You've got some balls, girl."

Sansa didn't know how to respond to such a statement, so she said nothing.

The Hound seated himself unceremoniously on the table, half-sitting, half-standing, his hands crossed on his lap. He looked like a novice lecturer attempting to look hip and cool whilst sharing words of wisdom to his audience. His expression conveyed the same notion, watching Sansa as if to check that he had her attention before he started talking.

"In a house fire. In our house, in my bedroom, when I was just seven." His tone was even, every word dropped precisely.

"Oh!" Sansa exhaled. For a child to have endured such a dreadful accident was horrible indeed.

The Hound stared at her as if waiting for her to say something else. While Sansa was trying to gather her thoughts and think of something suitable to convey her sympathy, his expression changed. It didn't seem to be a reflection of Sansa's inability to respond though – he appeared to have almost forgotten that she was there, instead staring vacantly ahead, his brows drawing together and his mouth twitching. Sansa drew a deep breath and soldiered on regardless.

"I'm so sorry to hear that, it must have –" The rest of what she was going to say was cut short by the loud bang from The Hound hitting his fist on the table.

"Fuck that!"

Sansa jerked back, alarmed by his outburst.

"The fuck it was a _house fire_ – that was just the lie my father told anyone who asked." The Hound stared at his curled fist, his nostrils flaring. Then he lifted his head, his face contorted in rage. "You want to know what it was? What it _really _was?"

Sansa regretted rousing such a reaction from him. _Why_ had she opened her big mouth and asked such a stupid question? It was clearly a sensitive subject and she of all people, an aspiring psychiatrist, should have known better!

It was too late to stop him now, however, so Sansa slumped her shoulders and tried to make herself as small as possible, hoping his ire would soon pass.

The Hound turned away so that Sansa was facing his broad back. He started with a low voice, so low that Sansa had to strain her ears to hear what he said.

"I was seven all right. My brother had a wrestling figurine he had gotten from somewhere, and it was the fanciest figurine I had ever seen; moving joints, exchangeable championship belts, the works. I played with it in our garden – I was just _borrowing _it - and he saw me. The BBQ was heating up – we were going to grill some sausages later – and he just picked me up, not saying a word, and carried me to it." He stopped for a moment. "I think you can guess the rest."

Sansa recoiled. _Could it be – no, surely he couldn't have?_

The Hound seemed to have read her mind as he growled darkly. "Yes, he fucking did. Pressed my face against the coals and there was nothing I could do." He exhaled sharply. "Except scream."

Sansa stared at his back, her skin crawling. Helplessly, she hung on to the only logical thing that stood out for her in that macabre tale. "Your brother… surely he had to answer for it?"

The Hound threw his head back and laughed, a dry, barking laugh that stopped as unexpectedly as it started.

"Answer for it! Gregor was just about to be signed for the NGW, and had they known about it, he would have kissed that hefty contract goodbye! So my father made up the story about the fire and no one was ever the wiser."

Next Generation Wrestling was a stepping stone to the WWA and the best way to proceed in the business. Sansa understood the importance of it, and still… Nausea washed over her just from thinking of what she had just heard.

Without conscious thought, she stepped closer and reached out to touch him, her hand meeting his shoulder, the heat of his body radiating through his T-shirt into her palm. The Hound tensed, his muscles as rigid as steel but he didn't move.

"I am so sorry. I _mean_ it, I really do. He did wrong and he should have never been allowed to get away with it."

He didn't reply but Sansa didn't remove her hand. Eventually, after an indeterminate amount of time, she felt The Hound relax under her touch. To lay her hand on him for longer would have been too awkward, so Sansa pulled away slowly.

The silence stretched on. The low hum of music from the direction of the Great Hall drifted to the room, signalling good times and a party in full swing, somewhere far, far away. Headlights of a car driving into the courtyard traced a bright path across the wall before moving past, shadows reclaiming their place again.

The Hound's back was still turned but he pushed himself away from the table, slowly, and walked to the window. He stared outside for a moment, then spoke. The heat was gone from his voice and he sounded weary.

"The shit is going to hit the fan soon. In the company."

Sansa was taken aback by the sudden change of topic.

"Bobby is losing his grip and Cersei and Joffrey want to take it over. And when they do, your old man is going to get the boot."

Sansa wasn't exactly sure what he was referring to but lately, she had noticed her father being more distracted than usual and under a lot of stress. If this was the reason…it made sense. But why bring it up now?

"I don't know much about it. Father doesn't tell me about those things," she offered, cautiously.

Slowly, The Hound turned to face Sansa. His mouth was set in a hard line and he clenched his jaw.

"What will you do, then?"

Sansa thought for a moment. "I'll be fine. I am only here on a student exchange anyway, so once the semester ends, I'll go back to Wintertown uni."

"I know what I'll be doing. _Leaving. _Don't want to be Joffrey's lackey, ever again."

"I see."

The Hound fell silent again. He looked at his hand and appeared surprised to find the half-empty beer bottle still in it. That state of affairs didn't last long, though, as he gulped it down in a few greedy mouthfuls, then dropped it on the floor.

The thick carpet absorbed the sound almost without a trace.

Sansa shifted on her feet, thinking she really should be getting back to the party. It was her responsibility to look after the other guests as well. She hadn't been surprised not to see the main sponsor himself, Bobby B, in the party, the scene not being his usual hangout. She _had _been surprised, though, to see some of the wrestlers and coaches there. Beric 'The Sword' Dondarrion was there, as was women's champion Asha 'The Squid' Greyjoy, accompanied by their grizzly but good-natured head coach Barristan Selmy with his assistant Jorah Mormont.

"I should get back to our guests. I'm one of the student body hosts, and…" She let her voice trail off, The Hound continuing to stare out of the window showing no signs of having heard her – or caring about what she said.

Quietly, Sansa turned on her heels and walked to the door. Just as she was about to step into the corridor, he called after her.

"Little Bird."

Sansa stopped, debating whether she should react to such a nickname, especially after how he had used it to disparage her earlier. Yet his tone was subdued, not challenging. She turned around, slowly.

"If you ever tell anyone what I told you tonight…" He had turned away from the window and faced her. His expression contradicted his words: the former spoke of a veiled threat of consequences if broken, the latter conveyed anguish and silent plea. "About anything I told you tonight…"

He didn't finish his sentence, but it was not necessary. Sansa understood.

"I won't. I promise."

A flash of something passed between them, the man and the girl. A quiet understanding, a secret entrusted to the care of another.

"You better get back to your party. Your friends must be missing you." The Hound's voice was husky, almost soft.

Sansa nodded and finally made her exit, all the time being aware of the Hound's eyes following her all the way to the corridor, where she broke into a small run. She had an odd urge to leave, to go home, to be on her own and ruminate over the strange encounter she had just experienced.

Once, when she had first arrived in King's Landing, she had been given a backstage tour around the WWA stadium by the team fitness trainer Davos Seaworth. He had taken her to the ring itself and explained some of the basic training techniques and common moves, Sansa having a go at a few of them. Just simple stuff such as bouncing off the ropes, somersaults and falls.

Then Davos had helped her to climb up on the corner turnbuckles and she had stood there, supported by him from her ankles and knees, and looked down at the middle of the ring. It had seemed to be so terribly far away, and the thought of leaping into the air to execute a diving elbow drop, diving crossbody or, heaven forbid, some even more challenging move such as swan dive, had made her dizzy and caused beads of perspiration to trickle down her forehead. How anyone could have so much confidence, strength and skill to take such a leap, mystified Sansa. How _could_ a human being ignore all common sense and its warnings to jump from so high up, just like that?

Her feet had trembled and sensing her unease, Davos had climbed half-way up and supported her by the shoulder while guiding her steps all the way down. When Sansa had finally felt the solid floor of the ring under her feet, she had taken a deep breath and sworn never again to climb so high - and most definitely never to fool herself into thinking that she could jump from the ropes.

She felt something very similar in that very moment – dizziness, a glimpse of danger, trepidation.

Yet it was ridiculous to think of the encounter in such terms so Sansa tried to push it out of her mind, stopping to gather herself behind the last door leading to the Great Hall. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and only then stepped back into the bright lights and a pulsating swirl of the humanity of the party.


	2. The Jump

**Author's Notes:** This second chapter takes us into the conclusion of this short and hopefully sweet story… The open ending, full of possibilities – so now it is up to you, dear readers, to imagine what happens after… Do let me know how you found this, my first modern AU!

And Merry Christmas in July once again!

* * *

**_Sansa_**

The Hound had been right: the shit _did_ hit the fan soon after.

Bobby Baratheon suffered a massive cardiac arrest and while he was recuperating in the hospital, his wife and co-owner Cersei Lannister called a meeting of the WWA board and announced a 'friendly' takeover with her and Joffrey at its helm. The board agreed, and sooner than one could say 'contractual obligations', Ned Stark was out of a job.

He took it well though, telling Sansa that he preferred not to work for 'that woman' anyway. In a family meeting it was decided that Ned would fly home and consider his next step back in the North, while Sansa would finish her semester before following him.

As for the Hound, Sansa saw him in the shows, of course, defending his championship and delivering his characteristic brusque promos, threatening to gut any of the 'gnats' who imagined themselves to be a match for him.

He saw her too, often glancing in her direction during the show and between the matches. Sansa was usually seated in the prime seating area – advantages of the Premier Pass she had received from her father and which even Cersei in her pettiness hadn't revoked. That meant that she was close enough to the action to be fully aware of his looming presence and attention – which, however, was quickly withdrawn when she looked back at him.

Only once had he and Sansa spoken, and that more by accident than by design. She had gone backstage after the show, and when turning the corner, had almost collided with him, only her abrupt halt preventing a head-on crash. Instead, she had found herself eye level with his sweaty, heaving chest, covered with dark hair.

While Sansa had murmured her apologies, he had asked what she was doing there and if she was looking for someone. Then Joffrey had walked past and greeted her – and The Hound had slid away without another word.

Still assailed by the intensity of their meeting at the party, Sansa had stooped as low – as per her usual standards – as to find out everything she could about him from the internet, searching by both his ring-name and his real name, Sandor Clegane. His biography was scanty, he rarely featured in news or articles outside the usual wrestling sites, and his social media presence was non-existent. His only entry on Twitter, apparently forced upon the employees by the WWA, was a one-liner, _"So here I am – enjoy"_, not followed by any other tweets.

Even adding "girlfriend" after his real or ring-name didn't bring up any hits in Google – which was unusual by itself. If not real news, most wrestlers' profiles were inundated with gossip and speculation about who they were dating or not – but not him.

All she could glean from her search was his career development from a solitary youth, who had discovered pro-wrestling as an outlet to whatever demons he had on his back - and now Sansa knew what they were – via indie circles, hard-core death-matches and small promotions, all the way to the WWA. That, and that the cause of his scars was universally accepted to be a house-fire in his bedroom when he had been just a child - just as he had first told. His brother's – another wrestler in the WWA under the ring-name 'The Mountain' – web entries had lots of information about _his_ career, but no hints about the atrocity he had committed.

* * *

It was the day of Sansa's departure. She had packed all her belongings and sent most of them ahead by airfreight, leaving only one carry-on bag to take with her on her flight.

She eyed her room for the last time. It had been a good year and she had enjoyed every moment of it, and part of her felt sorry to leave it all behind, but another part was keen to get back home to her family and friends. This year things were going to be different for her: she was going to move away from her parents' house, possibly with her best friend Jeyne. She was going to focus on finishing her studies, maybe get a part-time job… she was going to start her adult life for real.

Sansa sighed and glanced at her watch. She still had a few more hours to kill before she had to be at the airport so she decided to pay one last visit to her favourite café only a block away.

Stepping out of the front door, she was hit by a blast of brilliant sunshine. The weather was warm and there was a hint of spring in the air, lifting her spirits even higher. The sun in her eyes blinded her so that when she first heard the humming sound of a car engine slowing down beside her and heard a shout, she had to squint her eyes and cover her brow to see better.

"Little Bird!"

The car was big and black, one of those four-wheel utility drives favoured by rugged outdoorsmen and adventurers with extra cash. The tinted side window lowered and she saw the man driving it.

_The Hound._

"Hello," was all she could manage, surprised by his unexpected appearance. Why was he here – had he come to find her? Or maybe it was just a coincidence that he was driving by at that precise moment?

"You have a minute?"

The car had stopped right next to her, but the motor was still running. If she said _no_, explaining that she was in a hurry, would he take her at her word and drive away?

The thing was, she didn't _feel _like saying no.

"I do have a moment, but not much more than that," she said, bending to peer through the window. She saw the same big black dog on the backseat, its ears perking up as it saw her. The Hound reached for the door handle and with a click, the door opened.

Once Sansa had settled in the seat, the Hound steered the car to the first available parking spot and stopped, this time turning the ignition off. The silence following the death of the motor was deafening - he didn't even have a radio on.

"So, how are you?" Sansa asked. That's what people ask after not seeing each other for a while, don't they?

"I'm leaving."

"You're leaving WWA?"

"Everything." The Hound's hands rested on the steering wheel, which looked awfully small in comparison. The backs of his hands were hairy but his fingers were unexpectedly long and there was something delicate in the way he slowly rubbed the spokes of the wheel, probably not even realising he was doing it.

"I told Cersei she can shove my contract where the sun doesn't shine and packed my bags. I'm done with the Baratheons and Lannisters."

Well, he had told her so, so Sansa wasn't terribly surprised.

"What do you plan to do?" she asked, out of genuine interest.

"Don't know yet. I could be a free agent for a while, wrestle in indie circles." He looked at Sansa then. "I think I'll leave the city, go somewhere else for a while. North, maybe."

Sansa's heart started to race. It was quite ridiculous, really. What was it to her what he decided to do? In the name of mutual sharing, she decided, however, to tell him about her plans.

"I'm leaving too. As a matter of fact, I have to be at the airport shortly for my flight to Wintertown."

"I know."

"How?"

"Cersei told me."

"She did?" Sansa remembered mentioning her departure in the parting email she had sent to Bobby and Cersei. They had been welcoming to her and her father when they had first arrived and it was only good manners to bid them farewell, no matter how things between their families had ended. Besides, Ned and Bobby's friendship still endured, and Bobby had sworn to pay his old friend a visit as soon as he had recovered enough to do so.

The Hound turned to her fully. "I could give you a ride."

"That's very nice of you, but I'll be fine. I only have a carry-on bag and I can easily take an Uber," Sansa said.

She wouldn't have really minded accepting the offer, but what would have been the point of it? They were probably not going to see each other again, and the awkwardness of their interactions was unlikely to pass during the short drive to the airport. There was _something_ between them, Sansa had realised over the last few weeks, something that had been ignited that evening at the university party. Something unsure and fragile, something that was more of a promise of potential rather than a thing on its own.

Yet it didn't matter. Even should he move to the North and wrestle there, their life situations were so far apart that…

"I didn't mean to the airport."

Sansa's trail of thought was so abruptly interrupted, she was confused at first. If not to the airport, then –

_Oh!_

"You can't mean Wintertown? It's halfway across the country!"

"I know." Seemingly realising that it was not enough, The Hound continued. "I like driving. And I'd hate to confine Stranger in one of those crates for the flight. And I couldn't leave him behind." He reached to scratch the ear of the dog, who had poked its head between the seats. Sansa looked at the dog warily. Those breeds had a reputation, after all.

"Go on, pat him. He's a big sook," The Hound urged – and she did. The dog's fur was silky and soft and its nose, when it sniffed her hand, was cold and wet. Tentatively, it licked her fingers.

Sansa's head was whirling. For her, the notion was crazy. It would take at least four or five days to drive up, whereas in a plane it would be a matter of hours. She would be back at home this same night, embraced by her mother and her many siblings. Why should she even consider such an offer?

"That's a very long drive," she offered. As if he didn't know.

"They say the route along the coast is pretty. And the scenery in the Vale is supposed to be breathtaking. I might take a few side trips. Haven't seen enough of this country, as it is."

The Hound glanced out of the window, which he had wound down when they had stopped. He might have appeared nonchalant and not caring a whit whether Sansa accepted his offer or not, but his fingers, tapping against the wheel at an increasing tempo, gave him away.

_He is nervous_, Sansa realised, to her astonishment. And something warm started to bloom inside her chest.

Every sensible brain cell in her head screamed 'NO' – it would be the height of stupidity to ditch the plane and join a man she hardly knew for such a long ride. Gods, if her mother knew she was even passingly contemplating it, she would have a fit.

And yet, every cell in her body and every nerve-ending that was ignited by his proximity screamed 'YES'.

She would be safe with him. It didn't make sense to think so, but deep in her core, Sansa knew it to be so. True, he was a gamble, all odds stacked against him – but maybe he was worth the risk.

"Okay, then," she breathed out.

The fingers stopped their drumming and The Hound stiffened. His eyes widened and brows lifted so high that it actually looked a bit comical, and Sansa had to stifle her instinct to giggle.

"Okay what?"

"I accept your offer. I need to call the airline to cancel my ticket – luckily it's fully flexible – and get my bag from my room, and then we can be on our way." She glanced at the back of the car and saw two large suitcases and a couple of boxes. "Do you have all your stuff with you already?"

"You're for real?" The Hound stared at her, brows furrowed. "I mean… we wouldn't have to take any side tours. And we could drive just as fast and directly as you want. And stay in proper hotels for the nights – in separate rooms, of course."

_Was that a flush creeping up his face?_ Sansa's amusement grew. He was like a dog chasing after a car, who didn't know what to do when one actually stopped.

"I'd certainly hope so; I hardly know you. But side trips would be fine. I haven't seen enough of this country myself."

Getting no answer from his flustered companion, Sansa clutched her handbag in her lap and straightened herself in her seat. "Well, I better get my things and make the necessary calls. Can you take us into the parking lot next to my building, the big red one in front of which you saw me?"

It took a moment longer before The Hound acted, turning the ignition on and manoeuvring the car around.

"What should I call you, then? I think 'The Hound' may not be quite appropriate. I know your real name is Sandor – do you mind if I call you that?" Sansa asked while he was reversing into an empty spot.

"Ah, yeah, sure – call me Sandor," he muttered, seemingly still in shock at the turn of events.

"My name is Sansa, not a Little Bird. Can you wait for just a moment, Sandor? I'll be right back."

When Sansa climbed the stairs to her room, something vibrant and exciting started to bubble inside her. She felt lightheaded and couldn't stop grinning. The whole thing was outlandish and bizarre and against all common sense.

It was… as if she had just climbed up the turnbuckle again and was standing high up, looking into the bright lights of the stadium, into the middle of the ring, so far away. She was nervous, she was anxious – but it felt _right_. Sandor was going to be there to catch her if she leapt.

_It was time to jump from the ropes._


End file.
